Before the end of the first week after Dan came back to town, that which was likely to happen whenever chance brought him and Alice together had taken place.
It was one of the soft days that fall in late October, when the impending winter seems stayed, and the warm breath of the land draws seaward and over a thousand miles of Indian summer. The bloom came and went in quick pulses over the girl's temples as she sat with her head thrown back in the corner of the car, and from moment to moment she stirred slightly as if some stress of rapture made it hard for her to get her breath; a little gleam of light fell from under her fallen eyelids into the eyes of the young man beside her, who leaned forward slightly and slanted his face upward to meet her glances. They said some words, now and then, indistinguishable to the others; in speaking they smiled slightly. Sometimes her hand wavered across her lap; in both their faces there was something beyond happiness—a transport, a passion, the brief splendour of a supreme moment.
They left the car at the Arlington Street corner of the Public Garden, and followed the winding paths diagonally to the further corner on Charles Street.
“How stupid we were to get into that ridiculous horse-car!” she said. “What in the world possessed us to do it?”
“I can't imagine,” he answered. “What a waste of time it was! If we had walked, we might have been twice as long coming. And now you're going to send me off so soon!”
“I don't send you,” she murmured.
“But you want me to go.”
“Oh no! But you'd better.”
“I can't do anything against your wish.”
“I wish it—for your own good.”
“Ah, do let me go home with you, Alice?”
“Don't ask it, or I must say yes.”
“Part of the way, then?”
“No; not a step! You must take the first car for Cambridge. What time is it now?”
“You can see by the clock on the Providence Depot.”
“But I wish you to go by your watch, now. Look!”
“Alice!” he cried, in pure rapture.
“Look!”
“It's a quarter of one.”
“And we've been three hours together already! Now you must simply fly. If you came home with me I should be sure to let you come in, and if I don't see mamma alone first, I shall die. Can't you understand?”
“No; but I can do the next best thing: I can misunderstand. You want to be rid of me.”
“Shall you be rid of me when we've parted?” she asked, with an inner thrill of earnestness in her gay tone.
“Alice!”
“You know I didn't mean it, Dan.”
“Say it again.”
“What?”
“Dan.”
“Dan, love! Dan, dearest!”
“Will that car of yours never come? I've promised myself not to leave you till it does, and if I stay here any longer I shall go wild. I can't believe it's happened. Say it again!”
“Say what?”
“That—”
“That I love you? That we're engaged?”
“I don't believe it. I can't.” She looked impatiently up the street. “Oh, there comes your car! Run! Stop it!”
“I don't run to stop cars.” He made a sign, which the conductor obeyed, and the car halted at the further crossing.
She seemed to have forgotten it, and made no movement to dismiss him. “Oh, doesn't it seem too good to be standing here talking in this way, and people think it's about the weather, or society?” She set her head a little on one side, and twirled the open parasol on her shoulder.
“Yes, it does. Tell me it's true, love!”
“It's true. How splendid you are!” She said it with an effect for the world outside of saying it was a lovely day.
He retorted, with the same apparent nonchalance, “How beautiful you are! How good! How divine!”
The conductor, seeing himself apparently forgotten, gave his bell a vicious snap, and his car jolted away.
She started nervously. “There! you've lost your car, Dan.”
“Have I?” asked Mavering, without troubling himself to look after it.
She laughed now, with a faint suggestion of unwillingness in her laugh. “What are you going to do?”
“Walk home with you.”
“No, indeed; you know I can't let you.”
“And are you going to leave me here alone on the street corner, to be run over by the first bicycle that comes along?”
“You can sit down in the Garden, and wait for the next car.”
“No; I would rather go back to the Art Museum, and make a fresh start.”
“To the Art Museum?” she murmured, tenderly.
“Yes. Wouldn't you like to see it again?”
“Again? I should like to pass my whole life in it!”
“Well, walk back with me a little way. There's no hurry about the car.”
“Dan!” she said, in a helpless compliance, and they paced very, very slowly along the Beacon Street path in the Garden. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yes, but it's delightful.”
“Yes, that's what I meant. Do you suppose any one ever—ever—”
“Made love there before?”
“How can you say such things? Yes. I always supposed it would be—somewhere else.”
“It was somewhere else—once.”
“Oh, I meant—the second time.”
“Then you did think there was going to be a second time?”
“How do I know? I wished it. Do you like me to say that?”
“I wish you would never say anything else.”
“Yes; there can't be any harm in it now. I thought that if you had ever—liked me, you would still—”
“So did I; but I couldn't believe that you—”
“Oh, I could.”
“Alice!”
“Don't you like my confessing it! You asked me to.”
“Like it!”
“How silly we are!”
“Not half so silly as we've been for the last two months. I think we've just come to our senses. At least I have.”
“Two months!” she sighed. “Has it really been so long as that?”
“Two years! Two centuries! It was back in the Dark Ages when you refused me.”
“Dark Ages! I should think so! But don't say refused. It wasn't refusing, exactly.”
“What was it, then?”
“Oh, I don't know. Don't speak of it now.”
“But, Alice, why did you refuse me?”
“Oh, I don't know. You mustn't ask me now. I'll tell you some time.”
“Well, come to think of it,” said Mavering, laughing it all lightly away, “there's no hurry. Tell me why you accepted me to-day.”
“I—I couldn't help it. When I saw you I wanted to fall at your feet.”
“What an idea! I didn't want to fall at yours. I was awfully mad. I shouldn't have spoken to you if you hadn't stopped me and held out your hand.”
“Really? Did you really hate me, Dan?”
“Well, I haven't exactly doted on you since we last met.”
She did not seem offended at this. “Yes, I suppose so. And I've gone on being fonder and fonder of you every minute since that day. I wanted to call you back when you had got half-way to Eastport.”
“I wouldn't have come. It's bad luck to turn back.”
She laughed at his drolling. “How funny you are! Now I'm of rather a gloomy temperament. Did, you know it?”
“You don't look it.”
“Oh, but I am. Just now I'm rather excited and—happy.”
“So glad!”
“Go on! go on! I like you to make fun of me.”
The benches on either side were filled with nursemaids in charge of baby-carriages, and of young children who were digging in the sand with their little beach shovels, and playing their games back and forth across the walk unrebuked by the indulgent policemen. A number of them had enclosed a square in the middle of the path with four of the benches, which they made believe was a fort. The lovers had to walk round it; and the children, chasing one another, dashed into them headlong, or, backing off from pursuit, bumped up against them. They did not seem to know it, but walked slowly on without noticing: they were not aware of an occasional benchful of rather shabby young fellows who stared hard at the stylish girl and well-dressed young man talking together in such intense low tones, with rapid interchange of radiant glances.
“Oh, as to making fun of you, I was going to say—” Mavering began, and after a pause he broke off with a laugh. “I forget what I was going to say.”
“Try to remember.”
“I can't.”
“How strange that we should have both happened to go to the Museum this morning!” she sighed. Then, “Dan,” she broke in, “do you suppose that heaven is any different from this?”
“I hope not—if I'm to go there.”
“Hush, dear; you mustn't talk so.”
“Why, you provoked me to it.”
“Did I? Did I really? Do you think I tempted you to do it? Then I must be wicked, whether I knew I was doing it or not. Yes.”
The break in her voice made him look more keenly at her, and he saw the tears glimmer in her eyes. “Alice!”
“No; I'm not good enough for you. I always said that.”
“Then don't say it any more. That's the only thing I won't let you say.”
“Do you forbid it, really? Won't you let me even think it?”
“No, not even think it.”
“How lovely you are! Oh! I like to be commanded by you.”
“Do you? You'll have lots of fun, then. I'm an awfully commanding spirit.”
“I didn't suppose you were so humorous—always. I'm afraid you won't like me. I've no sense of fun.”
“And I'm a little too funny sometimes, I'm afraid.”
“No, you never are. When?”
“That night at the Trevors'. You didn't like it.”
“I thought Miss Anderson was rather ridiculous,” said Alice. “I don't like buffoonery in women.”
“Nor I in men,” said Mavering, smiling. “I've dropped it.”
“Well, now we must part. I must go home at once,” said Alice. “It's perfectly insane.”
“Oh no, not yet; not till we've said something else; not till we've changed the subject.”
“What subject?”
“Miss Anderson.”
Alice laughed and blushed, but she was not vexed. She liked to have him understand her. “Well, now,” she said, as if that were the next thing, “I'm going to cross here at once and walk up the other pavement, and you must go back through the Garden; or else I shall never get away from you.”
“May I look over at you?”
“You may glance, but you needn't expect me to return your glance.”
“Oh no.”
“And I want you to take the very first Cambridge car that comes along. I command you to.”
“I thought you wanted me to do the commanding.”
“So I do—in essentials. If you command me not to cry when I get home, I won't.”
She looked at him with an ecstasy of self-sacrifice in her eyes.
“Ah, I sha'n't do that. I can't tell what would open. But—Alice!”
“Well, what?” She drifted closely to him, and looked fondly up into his face. In walking they had insensibly drawn nearer together, and she had been obliged constantly to put space between them. Now, standing at the corner of Arlington Street, and looking tentatively across Beacon, she abandoned all precautions.
“What! I forget. Oh yes! I love you!”
“But you said that before, dearest!”
“Yes; but just now it struck me as a very novel idea. What if your mother shouldn't like the idea?”
“Nonsense! you know she perfectly idolises you. She did from the first. And doesn't she know how I've begin behaving about you ever since I—lost you?”
“How have you behaved? Do tell me, Alice?”
“Some time; not now,” she said; and with something that was like a gasp, and threatened to be a sob, she suddenly whipped across the road. He walked back to Charles Street by the Garden path, keeping abreast of her, and not losing sight of her for a moment, except when the bulk of a string team watering at the trough beside the pavement intervened. He hurried by, and when he had passed it he found himself exactly abreast of her again. Her face was turned toward him; they exchanged a smile, lost in space. At the corner of Charles Street he deliberately crossed over to her.
“O dearest love! why did you come?” she implored.
“Because you signed to me.”
“I hoped you wouldn't see it. If we're both to be so weak as this, what are we going to do?”
“But I'm glad you came. Yes: I was frightened. They must have overheard us there when we were talking.”
“Well, I didn't say anything I'm ashamed of. Besides, I shouldn't care much for the opinion of those nurses and babies.”
“Of course not. But people must have seen us. Don't stand here talking, Dan! Do come on!” She hurried him across the street, and walked him swiftly up the incline of Beacon Street. There, in her new fall suit, with him, glossy-hatted, faultlessly gloved, at a fit distance from her side, she felt more in keeping with the social frame of things than in the Garden path, which was really only a shade better than the Beacon Street Mall of the Common. “Do you suppose anybody saw us that knew us?”
“I hope so! Don't you want people to know it?”
“Yes, of course. They will have to know it—in the right way. Can you believe that it's only half a year since we met? It won't be a year till Class Day.”
“I don't believe it, Alice. I can't recollect anything before I knew you.”
“Well, now, as time is so confused, we must try to live for eternity. We must try to help each other to be good. Oh, when I think what a happy girl I am, I feel that I should be the most ungrateful person under the sun not to be good. Let's try to make our lives perfect—perfect! They can be. And we mustn't live for each other alone. We must try to do good as well as be good. We must be kind and forbearing with every one.”
He answered, with tender seriousness, “My life's in your hands, Alice. It shall be whatever you wish.”
They were both silent in their deep belief of this. When they spoke again, she began gaily: “I shall never get over the wonder of it. How strange that we should meet at the Museum!” They had both said this already, but that did not matter; they had said nearly everything two or three times. “How did you happen to be there?” she asked, and the question was so novel that she added, “I haven't asked you before.”
He stopped, with a look of dismay that broke up in a hopeless laugh. “Why, I went there to meet some people—some ladies. And when I saw you I forgot all about them.”
Alice laughed to; this was a part of their joy, their triumph.
“Who are they?” she asked indifferently, and only to heighten the absurdity by realising the persons.
“You don't know them,” he said. “Mrs. Frobisher and her sister, of Portland. I promised to meet them there and go out to Cambridge with them.”
“What will they think?” asked Alice. “It's too amusing.”
“They'll think I didn't come,” said Mavering, with the easy conscience of youth and love; and again they laughed at the ridiculous position together. “I remember now I was to be at the door, and they were to take me up in their carriage. I wonder how long they waited? You put everything else out of my head.”
“Do you think I'll keep it out?” she asked archly.
“Oh yes; there is nothing else but you now.”
The eyes that she dropped, after a glance at him, glistened with tears.
A lump came into his throat. “Do you suppose,” he asked huskily, “that we can ever misunderstand each other again?”
“Never. I see everything clearly now. We shall trust each other implicitly, and at the least thing that isn't clear we can speak. Promise me that you'll speak.”
“I will, Alice. But after this all will be clear. We shall deal with each other as we do with ourselves.”
“Yes; that will be the way.”
“And we mustn't wait for question from each other. We shall know—we shall feel—when there's any misgiving, and then the one that's caused it will speak.”
“Yes,” she sighed emphatically. “How perfectly you say it? But that's because you feel it, because you are good.”
They walked on, treading the air in a transport of fondness for each other. Suddenly he stopped.
“Miss Pasmer, I feel it my duty to warn you that you're letting me go home with you.”
“Am I? How noble of you to tell me, Dan; for I know you don't want to tell. Well, I might as well. But I sha'n't let you come in. You won't try, will you? Promise me you won't try.”
“I shall only want to come in the first door.”
“What for?”
“What for? Oh, for half a second.”
She turned away her face.
He went on. “This engagement has been such a very public affair, so far, that I think I'd like to see my fiancee alone for a moment.”
“I don't know what in the world you can have to say more.”
He went into the first door with her, and then he went with her upstairs to the door of Mrs. Pasmer's apartment. The passages of the Cavendish were not well lighted; the little lane or alley that led down to this door from the stairs landing was very dim.
“So dark here!” murmured Alice, in a low voice, somewhat tremulous.
“But not too dark.”
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